“Dead? Santa Maria! No, not she. Maybe she is crazy.” “You cannot leave her here,” said Guy; “if she is alive she should be taken in somewhere.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I tell you, she won’t move. I don’t know who she is.” “Poverina!” said Guy, very low; but he had scarcely spoken when a tremor shot through the crouching form at his feet, & a faint little cry reached him. “Signore—it is Teresina!” “Teresina,” repeated Guy in amazement. “Are you ill? What is the matter?” “Eh,” said the woman, staring, “The Signore knows her, then?” “What has happened?” Guy continued, as a burst of sobs answered his questions. “Will you get up, Teresina, & let me carry you into some house?” But she did not lift her hidden face, nor move from her cowering attitude. Guy was in sore perplexity. He could not leave her, not knowing whether she was ill or frightened in some way; & the woman who had been watching him with an expression of sleepy surprise on her heavy face ran off here in pursuit of a brown-legged little boy who was scampering toward the Piazza. Just then, as Guy was gazing doubtfully down the crooked street, two people appeared moving quickly against the dark sunset glow; one a short, plain-faced little woman, with the indefinable air of an English servant—the other tall, & blonde, with soft blue eyes & her hands full of flowers. “Miss Graham!” exclaimed Guy, as she recognized him with a start & a deepening blush. “What is the matter?” said Madeline, glancing with surprise towards Teresina while Priggett, the maid, hung back with a disapproving stare. “Who is that poor creature, Mr. Hastings? Why,” she continued suddenly, “it must be your little peasant—Teresina!” “So it is,” said Guy, “& I cannot find whether she is ill or only unhappy. She will not move, & I cannot get her to answer my questions.” “Poor thing!” and Madeline, regardless of the dirty cobble-stones & her own soft, pretty dress, knelt down beside Teresina; & began to speak in her sweet, shy Italian. “Will you not tell us if you are suffering?” she said; “we are so sorry for you & we cannot leave you here.” “Miss—” said Priggett in an agony, “Miss, it’s growing very dark.” “Never mind, Priggett. Mr. Hastings, will you hold these flowers, please?” & putting her roses into his hand, she quietly slipped her arm about Teresina & raised the poor little drooping head tenderly. “I do not think she is in pain—speak to her, Mr. Hastings.” Guy bent over her & said a few soothing words; & Madeline, still kneeling by her side, asked again very gently: “What is it, Teresina?” “Tell the Signora,” urged Guy. “She is very kind & wants to help you.” Teresina was still sobbing, but less violently & now she made no attempt to hide her face; & in a few moments they caught a little, trembling answer. “I am hungry.” “Poor thing—poor thing—” said Madeline, through her tears. “Have you no home?” She gave a little shriek & tried to hide her face, repeating passionately “No, no, no!” “She is not fit to answer any questions,” said Madeline. “Mr. Hastings, she must be carried into some house at once & taken care of.” The woman who had stared at Guy came back just then from her chase to the piazza; & calling her, they persuaded her to let Teresina be taken into her house close by. Guy lifted the poor, fainting creature in his arms & Madeline followed, for once regardless of Priggett’s indignant glances, while the woman led the way up some tumbling steps into a wretched little room. The night had fallen when, having left some money & sundry directions, they turned once more into the lonely street, Madeline shyly accepting Guy’s escort home. “I will go & see the poor thing tomorrow,” she said, her sweet voice full of pity. “I think she has had a great blow. She does not seem really ill—only exhausted.” “She could not be under kinder care—poor child!” said Guy, thoughtfully.